


The Rebirth of Skywalker

by marchstarling



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Droids, Ensemble Cast, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Force Ghosts, Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Redemption, Rey Nobody, Skywalker Family Drama, heal the myth, it's not about deserve, love is the answer, star wars is a fairytale, tros? don't know her, why does everyone want to go back to tatooine?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchstarling/pseuds/marchstarling
Summary: Past and present collide! The Resistance seeks refuge on Decaine, a planet that appears lost to time. Decaine has been occupied solely by droids for decades following a devastating attack by a Clone Wars era bio-weapon that sought to wipe out all organic lifeforms. Caught in this dead planet's stasis, some handle it better than others.Across the stars, the power vacuum left by Snoke’s demise creates fractions within the First Order. Armitage Hux, long denied dignity within the ranks of the fleet, seeks to prove, once and for all, the superiority of modern technology over ancient Jedi religion.Old wounds seethe, new loves flourish, and the role of the force within the galaxy refuses to stay stagnant...
Relationships: Finn/Rose Tico, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 21
Kudos: 14





	1. Machine Matters

Rey steps off the Millennium Falcon, booted feet making contact with jagged rock. The whole planet of Decaine is brown and tan, a muddy mix of monochrome. Her eyes skate over the sloping hills and mass machinery. It’s familiar, at least. She just hopes they don’t linger here too long. 

Finn darts up behind her, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well,” He says. “This is… something.” 

“Something is a good word for it.” 

He shakes her a bit, and she lets his energy rattle around her tired bones. “At least we’re out of Crait. That place was disgustingly cold.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” At least Crait was new, even if it was the same form of dead in the end. She smiles when he looks at her, all big eyes like he’s worried. “I wouldn't mind a bit of sun.” 

The droids welcome them onto the planet, leading them to a large, economically-built tower. “This facility was constructed by a group of worker droids during the Clone Wars era. The droids were sent by a team of Seperatist architects. Work was halted before its completion, as the Separatists were facing many setbacks in their war effort during the period and chose to divert resources. Still, it should be large enough to house you.” 

The Resistance enters the tower, pressing against its dusty walls and inspecting its crumbling roof with skeptical eyes. Rey watches a few of them pinch their lips, and it makes her want to pinch them. She doesn’t like it either, but sometimes this is all you get. There’s no reason to grumble about it. 

“We have not continued up-keep for the facility,” The droid continues. “As we did not anticipate any organic lifeforms’ return here. We have attempted to make the tower organic-friendly upon receiving your communication asking for aid. Please ask if there is anything we can provide.”

Rey curls down on one of the newly laid blankets. She touches the broken pieces of her lightsaber, her pouch of food rations, and her roll of backup socks. She tugs off the poncho she bought from a street-vender for cheap near one of their past settlements, folding it behind her as a makeshift pillow for later that night.

“Mind if I park next to you?” 

Rey looks up. It’s that girl, the one Finn was tucking in like a baby a month ago. They had exchanged niceties since, and all signs point to Rose being a kind, big-hearted person, but the thought of investing in another “organic-lifeform” exhausts Rey. 

“Sure.” She says, budging over. It’s only for sleep. With any luck, Rose conks out early and deep. 

“Great, thanks.” Rose plops down on her own little blanket, happily shifting through a backpack of tools and gadgets.

“You’re a mechanic, right?” 

“Yep.” Rose leans against the wall, letting out a deep sigh. “It’s so cool seeing all these different models of droid working together. While we’re here, I really want to learn more about their day-to-day. I think it could tell us a lot about their ability to form culture.” 

“Culture?” 

“Sure! It’ll be fascinating to see how they’ve evolved without human and other species’ influence.” 

“Well, good luck with that.” Rey says, patting her belt where the split saber rests. “I’m going to see if there are any weapon specialists on-planet.” 

She lays back, head pillowed on her poncho, and closes her eyes. Rose takes the hint.

-

“BB-8, give the surface of this planet a good scan. Let’s see what we have to work with.” 

BB-8 chirps. 

“An assortment of artillery in the tower’s bunker, huh? What about transportation?” 

Poe watches BB-8 spin their head three-hundred and sixty degrees, listening for the internal clicks that signify a promising lead. “Fifteen ships located a few miles West? Not bad, more than we thought. Thanks, buddy.” Poe gives BB-8 a good rub over the electrical wiring for their effort. 

“Listen up everybody.” A couple dozen heads swivel around to look at him. In the cavernous tower, they look minuscule. God, but is this really all that’s left? Poe coughs, giving himself a moment to pass a hand over his eyes. 

“We’re looking to salvage any gear we can here in Decaine before moving on to our next base. I’m gonna need mechanics and those good with their hands to go take a look at the ships West of here. See if they’re flyable or if they need a little love and care. Everyone else, there's a supply of weapons in the bunker of this tower that will go a long way toward aiding us in the fight against the First Order.” 

Poe glances down as BB-8 rolls lightly over his foot. “Uh-huh, yeah. Is that so? Rey, BB-8 says that the bunker’s sealed by a code outside of droid programming. Apparently, the Separatists that were here didn’t trust their droids with the key.” Poe snorts. “You think you could get us in?” 

Rey looks up from her saber. Poe twitches when she meets his gaze. There’s something about her, no matter how much Finn’s talked her up, that is distinctly unsettling. If Poe had to try to explain it, he’d say that the lines of her crackle and spark like a hyperactive engine—that there was “too much” of her. He flashes, briefly, to a sensory image: Holdo streaking her way across the stars, trailing bits of fire behind her like a comet. But that hadn’t scared him; it had been revolutionary, not inhuman. 

“Think?” She stands, arms crossing over her chest. “I know I can.” 

-

Rose turns to Finn, all kitted up, bag over his shoulder and boots laced. He strikes a dashing figure, landing somewhere between annoying and charming with his upturned lips and puffed out chest. Fortunately, that sweet spot appears to be her type. “I hear we have a date with a couple of ships.” He says.

“You’re coming?” 

“Of course.” 

“But—are you any good with tools?”

“I can handle a wrench.” He scratches his brow with a flick of his thumb. “Well, I can if you point me in the right direction. I have spent pretty much my entire life on ships, after all.” 

Sometimes, she forgets. She lost a home, and he never had one to begin with. How do you even start to deal with things like that? 

“You can use my tool belt.” She says, hushed. 

And what a stupid thing to say, not really what she meant at all, but Finn is looking at her like he’s paying good attention. Maybe what she was trying for managed to get across, despite her fumbling.

“Just ask whenever. I’ll lend it to you anytime.” She adds.

He reaches out with his hand, and she uncurls her fingers. She feels like one of those seeds that her and Paige used to harvest, the red ones that would make a big popping sound if you opened them too fast. She still hasn’t kissed him outside of a battlefield. 

“Hey!“ Poe shouts. Finn yanks back, hand going instead to the back of his own neck. Rose wilts. “BB-8, stop it. I need to check out the ships. No, there’s no better reason to go down to the bunker. You have a feeling? I didn’t ask you for a feeling; I asked you for facts.” 

BB-8 whirls.

“That’s rich coming from me?” 

BB-8 rolls up to Poe, knocking their very hard head into Poe’s very vulnerable knee. “Ow! Fine, jeez. This better pan out into something, buddy. Finn, Rose—I need you guys to lead the party going out to check on the ships. The droids living here can take you where you need to go; BB-8’s already sent a message requesting their guidance. It should be an old landing strip that you’re headed toward, by the sound of it. The ships never got moved after, well. After the people here were wiped out by the radical sect of the Separatists years ago. It’ll be a bit of a hike, but, once you get them running, it should be a quick fly back here.” 

“Got it.”

“Thanks.” Poe rubs at his knee. “Alright, alright I’m coming.” He grumbles, tottering off after BB-8, the soggy scraps of his dignity trailing behind him. 

Finn chuckles. “Ready for an adventure?” 

“With you? Always.” 

Finn blinks at her. His mouth falls open just a bit, slack and soft. Hell, maybe she can use words the right way after all.

-

Rey reaches out with her feelings, and she gets feelings back. When she breathes, she can taste the old molecules of the underground cove. They taste like struggle and fear. Deep indecision. She twists that fear, coiling it into an impossible knot, and then slips through it like air. “Bend.” She whispers, and the metal door crumples beneath her touch. 

“Shit.” Poe says. 

Rey strides forward, into the dark hole of the bunker. 

They find a chest of blasters and a cache of ammo. A couple stun-guns, some power cables, and a ceremonial dagger that looks pretty enough to carry but not functional enough to use. BB-8 rolls past them, hovering near a tarp. They beep excitedly. 

“Is this what you were on about?” Poe asks, staring at the lumpy shape underneath the cloth.

When they pull it off, they’re greeted with the carcass of a long de-powered droid. The way it curls into itself, small and sweet, makes Rey think of a youngling. 

“Look at that design.” Poe exclaims. “These ridges--definitely from the Clone War era. And the body is tight and compact, which implies that the droid wasn’t built for sustained battle.” 

Rey runs a light hand over the droid’s face, brushing off a layer of filth that must have built-up from lack of care. “Let’s see if we can wake this little guy up.” She says, brightening. “I think he might be able to help us.” 

-

“Ren is still in his room.” Hux says. “Pouting like a babe over his failure on Crait. Now is the time to strike.” 

He watches Pryde relax into his chair, one polished boot tapping the air to some invisible beat. The man always looks clean and regal, someone to be taken seriously. His easy authority sets Hux’s teeth grinding, despite being the exact thing that drew him to Pryde in the first place. 

“Careful, Hux.” Pryde says. “You don’t want to be too hasty, do you? Who knows what that man can discern with his powers.” 

“Powers,” Hux sniffs. “Mythical bull. Fine for a fancy, for creating a legend if one so wishes. But that’s all it amounts to: a legend. Legends are dead men co-opted to tell tall tales. Real power is in concrete things. It is in numbers; number of blasters, number of soldiers, what have you. Ren, as of now, is down to a single digit. Himself. So I repeat, now is the time to strike.” He says, gloved hand clenching. 

Pryde smiles at him. A sickly smile. The type of smile designed to hurt.“You can certainly try. I’ll even loan you the men for your little attempt at a coup.” He hums a little, like Hux is a curious distraction from the dull importance of his own life. The detached amusement drips off Pryde’s face, falling like hot wax onto Hux’s fair skin. Still, Hux takes it. He’s taken far worse and survived. Inside, he condenses it, funnels it into the small pocket of his chest where he’s kept every one of his father’s slaps, Snoke’s taunts, Ren’s tantrums. He keeps it, and he burns it out like fuel. 

Emotions can be a powerful tool, if you let them. 

-

“Are we almost there?” Finn huffs. His back bends uncomfortably under the weight of his satchel. Sweat beads his temples, running in globs down his chin. Did he tell Rey he hated cold weather? Clearly, that was a hasty opinion on his part, one that he needs to rectify immediately. 

“I miss Crait.” He gasps. “Crait was good; Crait was great.”

Rose passes him a towel. The towel is coarse, threads hanging off in all directions, and the edges are lined in oil from old repair jobs not washed well enough away. Finn blots like the fanciest of Canto Bight ladies. 

One of the planetary droids guiding their expedition zooms in on his sad figure. There’s no sympathy to be found in those glass eyes. “We are approaching the horizon line, sir, where you will be able to spot the bodies of the ships you seek to salvage. Please do not expire before we reach the area.” 

“Little asshole.” Finn mutters under his breath, and Rose laughs. Her cheeks dust with pink, plumping round like apples. Well, Finn thinks. That makes things marginally better. 

“I like him.” Rose says. “He has a real sense of personality.” 

“Personality? You got something out of that pre-programmed nonsense?”

“Can’t you see that he’s using it to rib you?” 

Finn looks toward the droid rolling along a couple paces in front of them. When he does, the droid’s head twists around to meet his gaze. Under the heavy brightness of Decaine’s sun, Finn guesses it’s possible--that even those glass eyes could be given a warm glint. What he doesn’t expect is for the droid to lift one clawed hand and shake it about in a little wave, before rolling merrily away. 

“What the heck?” 

“You’ve spent time with R2D2, haven’t you? Or BB-8? I’ve never met a pair of funnier droids. Or people, for that matter.” 

“A bit.” All of Finn’s memories of R2D2 and BB-8 lay in his peripheral. They were there--man, BB-8 had even programmed that fighter to save their asses when they were sitting ducks on Snoke’s ship--but it wasn’t ever about them. It was about him, or Rey, or even Kylo Ren with his big, hulking presence and his soldiers. The droids, in his mind, were always secondary. “Maybe not enough.” He murmurs. 

Finn grabs Rose’s hand, and they jog to catch up to the droid. “Hey! What’s your name?” 

The droid whistles. “I am called PJ-00. Nice to meet you…” 

“Finn. Remember that name. I’ll get you back.” 

“Nice to meet you, Finn. I’ll be looking forward to sparring with you verbally.” 

“I’ll bring the snacks.” Rose says. 

-

Rey sacrifices her poncho in the effort of getting the droid clean. She won’t have a place to rest her head tonight, but the droid will be free of the dirt and grime it accumulated over the decades languishing in that damp bunker. It’s a good trade.

“Come back.” She whispers, petting a hand down the droid’s side. “You’re wanted. Come back to me.” 

The force is in everything; it connects all of us. Rey has felt flowers bloom and waves ravage the earth; she’s become deeply acquainted with the dark, secret heat of the unknown trapped deep underground. Luke never said that the force weaves itself into the mechanical, that it beats in the chamber of a harddrive just as well as in a chamber of a heart, but, then, Luke was wrong about many things. 

“You’re wanted.” She repeats. “Please, you’re wanted.” 

Beneath her palm, there’s a twitch. Blue light burns her fingertips. “Hello,” Crokes a small, childlike voice. “D-0 at your service, how can D-0 be of help?” 

-

“Why are we stopping, father?” PJ-00 asks, glancing toward the tall, chrome droid at the front of the pack.

“Father?” Finn looks at Rose. Rose looks at Finn. Yeah, they both heard that right. 

“He is the one who built me, so he is my father. The same is true of humans and other species, is it not? I haven’t had a chance to meet any non-droid companions before you came along, but I’ve heard the stories.” 

“Today, my child, you are going to hear another. One I have kept from you for far too long.” The droid turns slowly to face them. One of its hands comes to rest on its chest. “Members of the Resistance, we close in on the ships you seek. Over this hill, you will see them. However, there is something else you must prepare to witness. I apologize for not saying such earlier, for I am a cowardly old man who likes to put things off.” 

“That’s not true, father--” 

“PJ, please.” 

PJ-00 rolls a step back, coming to rest next to Finn. 

“I was brought to this planet many decades ago as a communication droid. My purpose was to help lower the rising conflict between two warring factions with ties to the planet’s ecosystem. I learned to love humanity during these times--the impossible puzzle of feeling that radiated out from each person I spoke for. The love and fear inherent in all individuals, no matter how opposed their goals, touched me in a way I was not programmed to expect to be possible. The humans, twi’leks, and tortugas I met became… precious to me. Then the Separatists arrived.” The droid clambers up the hill, shoulders down in a heavy sag. “And we had to do something about the bodies.” 

Finn breaches the hill’s pinnacle, and he looks out onto decay. A thousand headstones jut out of a miles long pit of dirt. A grave more massive than Snoke’s ship; a hundred times the length of the Millennium Falcon. Inside, he feels cold. Rose’s hand goes still in his. 

“Some of the bodies were burned, of course, according to their people’s custom. These I knew to be a culture that buries their dead, and so I attempted to honor their wishes.” The droid says. “This was the heart of the planet before the Clone Wars came. People rejoiced to meet their family and friends at the loading docks. It was cause for celebrations. And so I, and the droids present at the time of their death, chose this place for their rest. A celebration of their life, if you will.” 

On the other side of the mass grave lay fifteen pristine looking silver-plated ships. It would only require a walk through death to reach them. 

-

D-0 makes a rapid-fire series of clicks. “Intruder!” 

Rey puts a hand to her belt, feet sliding out to steady her core, but when she looks around there’s nothing there. “What do you mean, D-0?”

“Intruder: unidentified droid two-point-five-feet away from Master, activating backup blasters.” 

D-0 unhinges its belly like a great snake unhinging its jaw, producing a large ultrasonic gun that, when fired, makes Rey’s ears ring. The lights on R2D2’s neck dull to a blank nothingness and the scream they produce cuts off into unnerving silence. 

“What did you do?” Rey shrieks. 

“Intruder One dispatched; Intruder Two, three point-two feet away--” 

Poe lunges in front of BB-8, arms coming up in a shield of fragile human flesh. D-0 shoots out a bolt of pure electrical energy that makes Poe bite a hole through his tongue. 

“Stop!” Rey says. 

“All intruders will become subservient to the Master, intruders will--” 

Rey’s hands ball into fists. Every ounce of her fear crashes down into an icy command: “Stop, now.” 

D-0’s limbs freeze. 

-

Kylo Ren sits in the middle of his room, back pin straight and hands resting lightly on his knees. The force dances behind his eyelids, its tail an ever curving wisp. Before, he had reached out with grasping fingers, attempting the impossible--to claim it for himself. Now, he knows better.

In the past month, he has learned something of letting go. 

In the small den that is his bedroom, there are, in order of use: a desk (half examined artifacts, old mission plans, spare tech, you name it), two sets of opened food rations (tasteless), an expansive calligraphy set (pristinely kept), and a twin bed, regulated to the corner, that is smaller than the aforementioned desk. Kylo can sense these things in the force, from the lumpy texture of his pillow to the slick of the ink in his inkwell.

When the bold outlines of twenty men appear just outside the boundary of his door, he opens one eye. When the wet smell of metal--blasters--drifts in through the force, he decides he might as well resign himself. 

The door caves in, liquid fire belting into his chambers. “Kylo Ren, you are under the arrest of the First Order.” 

“For what?” 

The gaggle of stormtroopers shuffle in their armor. “Supreme--I mean sir--I mean--” One of them raises a blaster to chest height, the barrel pointing straight to Kylo’s heart. “The cause doesn’t matter. As previously stated, you are under arrest. Put your hands above your head, and we will not be forced to use… force.”

Slowly, Kylo raises his hands.


	2. The Dog Bites Back

As the stormtroopers encroach on his chambers, Kylo rotates one of his raised wrists into a cutting downward jab. The closest stormtrooper launches back into the hallway, taking two others with him. Kylo pulls himself to his feet, toeing stiffly into his boots as he reflects a couple of blaster bolts. 

One trooper gets aggressive, pushing forward with his shoulder in a bull-headed sprint. Kylo turns to take him out at the waist, slamming him into the floor. The trooper doesn’t get up. 

He uses the force to guide his cross-saber into his hand. The cool metallic grip feels foreign without the barrier of his glove. He twists the saber around a few times to get comfortable, the wavering red light licking the air and making the remaining stormtroopers take several steps back. One of them comes perilously close to tripping over the shin of his fallen brother. 

“Back off.” Kylo points his lightsaber in an outward thrust, chin tucked down to his chest and eyes dark. “I’m leaving. It would be best if you don’t follow me.”

-

They don’t follow him. 

There’s more to come, of course, because there always is--an endless wave of white armor. They bite at the back of his heels all the way to the hangar bay. He uses the force to override the bay’s entrance, and the door slams shut, cutting the stormtroopers off on the other side. Blasters, fists, nor skill can get them to him now. The force is in him, and the force wills it so.

His tie fighter is on the other side of the bay, closest to the exit-port. It’s his usual spot, right in front, the ground scuffed from a few hard landings. Kylo has always been the first to hit the air on missions. That wide open bay, the swoop of space under him, and the flickering stars that his small fighter ship allows him to almost touch--it’s the closest to alive he ever gets. 

He strides toward his ship, purposeful in a way he hasn’t been since he had her eyes on his, her back to his back, and the world was red on red on red. 

“Woah there, partner.” A modulated growl beckons. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Stepping out from behind his tie fighter, one of his knights comes the stand between him and his exit. The two axes strapped to her back glow in the overhead light of the hangar bay. Cloaked in the deep dark hue of her mask and armor, she looks like a bringer of death. 

“Away from here. Now, if you’ll excuse me--” 

“Ah, ah.” Opal matches his sidestep with one of her own. Kylo knows his expression ripples, can feel the angry shuffle of his features. Without the barrier of his mask, Opal can see it. 

“Move.” He grunts. “Or I’ll make you.” The force bunches in pit-like nerves about his shoulders, static-sharp with the vulnerability he feels. 

Opal reaches back. She does it slowly, eyes unblinking and feet still. She unlatches the straps holding her axes to her back, cradling them in her loose palms. He could kill her. A saber to the chest would be easiest, would get him out of here, but he feels her. Her soul, wicked smart and vibrant in the force. It would be wrong to destroy that. 

Opal twirls one of her axes, bringing it to balance on her knuckles. “I took these off a bounty hunter, who took them off someone else. Who knows how many hands these beauties have passed through. Dozens, I imagine. The grip has worn in enough that they should be easy in my hands, but they never feel right. Never have felt right, because they were never really mine.” She looks up at him over the deadly shine of her axe. “You know that feeling, don’t you? Taking up a mantle that doesn’t fit.” 

There’s the sound of a buzzsaw at the hangar bay door. It screeches, metal on metal. “I would have hurt you for saying that.” 

“You would have,” She agrees. “But something’s changed, hasn’t it?” She pulls off her mask, dropping it like a deadweight at her feet. Without the mask, she looks young. Younger than Kylo would have ever guessed. “You’re different, better than you were before. That’s something I want.” She tosses him the axes, handles first. “So take me with you. We can use the axes for bartering. Steel is good currency no matter where you are in the galaxy; people always want to make more cold, dead things.” 

Kylo hooks the axes to the belt on his hip. He nods at her, eye to eye for the first time. She smiles at him for that, without any intent to cause pain, and he doesn’t know what to do. How to begin to make the same expression back. 

The hangar’s door falls open, and they run from the oncoming crush of white. Kylo pulls himself into his fighter, fingers going through the motions to start up the ship. The engine thrums with possibility. 

Outside, the stars bid for his presence. 

-

“Sir,” The stormtrooper salutes; it’s a wavering, hesitant gesture. “Ren has escaped. He’s taken his x-wing.” 

Hux looks down the bridge of his nose. “Oh really?” 

“Yes, sir. Some of the troopers we’ve contacted down in the hangar bay say that there’s another tie fighter missing as well. After looking into the serial number, the ship appears to belong to Opal, one of Ren’s knights.” 

Hux seethes. With his hands clasped behind his back, he has ample opportunity to cut an angry mark into the line of his palm with a nail. “Opal?” Hux jerks his neck, then mutters: “That’s not right. He was alone; he had no one.” 

“General Hux.” Pryde smiles, comfortable in his lounge in the middle of the bridge. “Not only have you lost us a space wizard, but you’ve lost us a knight as well. This doesn’t seem to be your day.” 

“Kylo Ren is unnecessary to our mission. He is a ticking time-bomb, just as likely to implode on us as he was our enemies. We’ll do best rid of him.” Hux says. He twists two of his fingers behind his back into a strand of DNA, and the troopers, freely given by Pryde not five months ago, raise their weapons at his command. “And we’ll do best to be rid of you, too.” 

For the first time in Hux’s memory, Pryde’s eyes widen in fear. It gives Hux the utmost satisfaction. 

“You sought to control me the way Snoke sought to control me. You expected that I would cow to you like a cur to its master.” 

“Put your weapons down!” Pryde shouts. 

“Numbers, Pryde.” Hux taunts. “It’s about numbers. If you and every other self-important higher up bothered to look outside yourself, then you’d see what’s right under your nose. You think you can get away with humiliating me on my bridge? Taking the power that is rightfully mine? No, I refuse. Snoke and Ren at least had their mythical ‘powers’, but you? What do you have, but a blaster to the spine?” 

Hux gives the signal, and Pryde falls. His deadened eyes stare up at the face he so loved to fun make of. Hux uses the toe of his boot to press Pryde’s cheek into the floor. 

“How tragic.” Hux says. “You,” He snaps his fingers. “Tell me the ship’s reading on Ren and Opal’s tie fighters.” 

“Almost out of range, sir. You have a two minute frame, maximum, if you want to retaliate.” 

“Give them a few blaster shots, but don’t break out the heavy artillery. They’re not worth that much.” 

-

“They’re firing at us.” Opal grits over the comm. 

Kylo twists his ship one-hundred and eighty degrees, a bolt of red blasting past his previous position. “Great observation.” 

“Look, save the sarcasm for when we’re not in the air getting shot at, alright?”

Kylo grunts, pushing hard on the thrusters. With the weapon-locator in the far right-field of his ship’s window, he’s able to spot four unusually vibrant bursts of red. “They’ve fired the heat-seeking missiles.” 

“Oh, that’s just great.” Opal exclaims, rather sarcastically for one so opposed to sarcasm. Her ship dips out of the corner of Kylo’s eye as a missile roars past her tail. 

“There’s four of them--two for you, two for me. My screen’s not picking up any other fire. This is all they’re willing to expend on us.” He hears the shakiness of her breath through the comm, the way it breaks and splinters in fear. “Hold on.” 

“I’m trying.” 

One of the missiles comes perilously close to the underbelly of Kylo’s x-wing. He inches the thrusters higher, until there’s nowhere else for them to go. It’s enough. The ship is able to scrape by, the missile falling behind by the space of a few heartbeats. He twists between a couple asteroids, but the missiles are glued so precisely to his ship’s trajectory that he doesn’t have a hope using the rocks as bait to take them out. 

He closes his eyes, just for an instant. Just to think. He feels the ship under and around him--the thrusters, the seat, the intricate machinery pumping beneath his touch. The dark, open chill of space, and, if he reaches even further, further than he ever has before, he can feel small pings of explosive warmth emanating from the missiles. So, they can be tracked through the force.

That’s new. But, then, the force is ever-changing.  
Kylo yanks his controls, hard. His ship pulmates downward as his body lifts up, only staying in his seat with the resistance weight of the ship’s inner harness. Then, because this isn’t hard enough, he exists out of the x-wing’s safety protocols. 

The ship immediately begins to tail-spin. The stars blur into a swirl of cream and the vacuum of space howls. With rocks to maneuver between, an above-average pilot would have a 0.0000001 chance of avoiding a crash, and that only because of luck. 

But Kylo Ren is related to three above-average pilots, and, for a family legacy more painful and ruining than anything else, maybe it’s about time his ancestors come in handy. He clears the asteroids. 

The frantic spinning of his ship confuses the missles, swirling them into an ever closing ringlet that ends in them exploding against each other. Kylo speeds off with the trail of their smoke clinging to the side of his fighter. He resets the protocols, and his ship levels out into a near smooth glide. He lets out a breath. 

“Opal, report.” 

“Alive.” Gasps his comm. “But barely.” 

“Position?” 

“Twenty clicks East.” 

Kylo speeds toward her ship’s location, sailing past space dust and the rogue asteroid. He catches sight of her peeling off one of the missiles in a daring double loop. “Keep ahead. I’ll take the one you’ve thrown off.” 

He latches onto the missile with his targeting device, getting a clear picture before firing off a beam of electric red. The missile implodes, the aftereffects rattling the bones of his ship. He glances up from the burst of orange to see Opal’s tie fighter lagging. The strain pulls taunt in the force. 

She’s not going to make it, he realizes. And there’s nothing he can do--he isn’t, has never been the right kind of strong. She tries to dodge the steely chrome of the missile, but it refuses to be tossed. It inches closer, until she can’t escape. 

A gaseous yellow burn emits from the destruction. The breathing in his ear goes quiet.

“Opal?” He asks, like a little boy. A being still capable of hope beyond measure; someone weak, ridiculous. 

The implosion splits apart, tiny streaks falling down like stars to earth. One of the streaks zigs when it should zag. 

Muffled crying hits Kylo’s ears, the universe breaking itself open. “Barely alive, like I said. The missile took out my left wing.Taking an immediate emergency landing on the closest planet.” 

Kylo clicks over his viewfinder with stumbling fingers, pulling up a map of nearby planets. “Tatooine.” 

“Heard it’s a dustball.” The crying morphs into a crippled form of laughter. “A good place for a soldier’s vacation.”


	3. I Am Not a Robot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title after the Marina and The Diamonds' song.

“You’re positioned over an area of the planet that is devoid of lifeforms.” Kylo says over the comm. “As long as you deploy your backup shutes after you breach the atmosphere, you should be fine on the landing.” 

“Got it.” Opal murmurs. Kylo can hear a bunch of key clacking from her end. She’s clearly not paying attention at this point. Fair enough. She is on fire; by proxy, he supposes, if a ship can’t be considered an extension of oneself. Kylo has doubts about that personally. When he’s in a ship, he is the ship and vice versa. 

His muscles are just starting to unspool from the coiled state they had rolled themselves into when he feels it. The unexpectedness of such a thing at such a vulnerable moment is like being punched. Or sliced open. 

“Rey.” It’s her. He knows it is. 

Like the brightest of stars, her presence in the force could shine from galaxies away at its fullest. She’s been gone from him this past month, spilling through his fingers like sand, but now he’s certain of the direction if not the exact destination. He could go now, find her. Explain himself, and make her understand. He’ll help her take out Hux and the rest of the First Order, and then she’ll see him. She’ll want him, and she won’t look pained about it like his parents always had. 

His ship hasn’t a hope of reaching lightspeed, but he’s a fast flyer. She’s not on the other side of the universe, that much he can be sure of--the Resistance didn’t have the fuel or materials to take them that far. Maybe a few days of travel? A few days, or a week, but what is a week, really, when it’s her? 

He’s resetting his coordinates without his mind’s permission, body too determined to meet her--really meet her, physically, in the flesh. To touch her hand over hyperspace was a dream. To touch her hand in person--past a dream; more than his sleeping mind could ever imagine. 

The comm crackles. “Who’s Rey?” 

“A girl.” He replies, numb: Opal, in his ear, not galaxies away, but a few parsecs.

There’s the realization that he has an attachment, new and fire-forged as it might be, that binds him here. Before, he could go anywhere, everywhere. It didn’t matter what he destroyed. If he was a forest fire, that was good. He could burn everything in his path and survive in ash. Maybe it would hurt for a little while, but that was expected. With power came pain. Snoke taught him that. 

Snoke is gone.

“The girl? The one all the higher ups were talking about having special powers and what-not? Oh shit.” The sound of panic; more frantic clicking. “--wait, we’re good.” 

“Don’t ruin the gauge, you’ll need it on planetary descent.” 

She needs him, too. He wouldn’t have thought so if it weren’t for her face, so young. When Snoke gifted Kylo the Knights of Ren, they loomed over him. He had never truly gotten past the feeling of being child-like in their presence, because, when he met them, he was a mere child. But knights came and went, new people took up the old, ill-fitting masks that, a decade or so down the line, they inevitably tossed aside. Opal isn’t as exception so much as a followed precedent. Kylo was the only permanent fixture. His mask was specifically designed for him, not a clunky hand-me-down. It was Snoke’s first present to him, and, unlike what he assumed of the knights, it always felt more like a necessary crutch than an unnecessary prop.

Now, a transient figure, mask-less for the first time in ten years, he is confronted with his own unmistakable age in the multitude of dots scattered across his cheeks and temple ("It's like a small star," Leia had said, when he had gotten his first one; "The sign of a flyer if there ever was one," Han had replied) and the weathered moons stamped permenently under his eyes. What a scary thing. Bad boys could be monsters; bad men, on the other hand, can be worse than that. 

Grandfather, he thinks. Were you ever this conflicted? Did you ever doubt?

Against his knee, the blade of Opal’s axe grows unbearably hot. The burning makes him jump, and he has to snap out a hand to grasp at the blade’s handle before the steel cuts a sliver into his thigh. Through the force, he can feel imprints made onto the weapon. Past lives, full of bloodshed and hatred. Violence, centered. Endless decay. Yet the longest lasting, the most potent of the impressions, is of Opal in the hangar bay, tossing him the axes handle-side up. 

A declaration of peace. An extension of trust. 

The flicker of Rey in the force grows quiet as he sets his ship on course for Tatootine. He snarls to keep the wetness from his vision. 

-

D-0 nudges her leg. “What’s wrong, master?” 

Rey blinks. Her consciousness materializes back into the room, only to find water dripping down her chin. Damn. That man. “I told you to stop calling me master.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s wrong.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it is!” Rey cries. 

D-0 curls away from her, head lowering in shame. He looks pathetic laid out against the grunge of the floor. 

Poe had demanded that D-0 be put in isolation, palm pressed protectively over BB-8’s domed head. He couldn’t stop Rey from going to him, though, so now they’re both exiled—one by choice—to a barred-off room the old Seperatist army must have planned to make into a small communications center but never got that far into renovating. 

“I’m sorry.” She says, because she’s supposed to be better. She isn’t supposed to be angry like him. If she was, she could have taken his hand. They could have been gloriously angry together. “I’m just… a bit tired.” 

“Is that so? D-0's indicators are noting a raised blood pressure and tightness of muscle, which implies that you are in fact--”

“D-0?”

“Yes, Rey?” 

“A tip: don’t try to tell me how I feel.” 

“Yes, Rey.” 

Her lips tug up at the corners, thawing. “See? You're capable.” 

“Noted.” Can droids look pensive? It’s an expression lightyears past the rudimentary hit of happy or sad, a complex mix of understanding and willingness to learn. D-0, with his pale, sollem face, does a good job of convincing her. “Rey, how can D-0 redeem themselves to your workmate?”

“Poe.” 

D-0 repeats the name a couple of times, storing it into memory. “Poe does not like D-0. D-0 would like to make him like D-0.” 

“Do you know why he’s mad at you?” 

“D-0 does not.” 

“Why don’t you start by telling me about your interactions with him.” 

“There was only one, where he got mad and responded to his anger by isolating D-0 in this room.”

Rey nods, a bit jerky. She scrubs at a heated cheek with the palm of her hand. She can’t condone Poe’s actions, and there’s the possibility that D-0 will ask her to. 

Thankfully, he moves on. “The interaction occurred after D-0 rebooted. The events of the interaction follow thusly: D-0 awoke, saw Master--excuse D-0--saw Rey, and located an unidentified droid close to her. To protect Rey, D-0 disposed of the droid. D-0 attempted to dispose of a second droid, but Rey’s workmate, Poe, prevented D-0 from accomplishing protocall. He then put D-0 in this room with the agreement of a party D-0 is told is called The Resistance. Rey came to D-0, and has sat with D-0 despite clear orders.” 

“Well, alright, maybe--” 

“You are currently under the suspicion of workmate Poe and a handful of others in The Resistance, like D-0 is.” 

“Thank you D-0.” Rey sighs. “That was a thorough and accurate summary.” 

“Can Rey tell D-0 why this caused anger? D-0 got rid of the droids, like D-0 was supposed to.” 

“Why were you supposed to?” 

“Because that is what D-0 was designed for. D-0 was built with the intent of D-0’s creators to destroy, that is D-0’s purpose in life.” 

Rey reaches out, pressing a hand to D-0’s head. “You don’t have to be what they made you.” She says, fiercely. 

“Then what good is D-0? Without a purpose, D-0 is extraneous. D-0 should be discharged and sent to the scrapheap.” 

“Not having a purpose doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist.” Rey says. She tucks D-0 under her chin, arms wrapping around him protectively. “People aren’t born with a purpose. Actually, they spend most of their lives trying to find one. If they have to discard it, it hurts, but that doesn’t mean it’s the end.” 

“Is that what D-0 is? People?” 

“Yeah,” Rey presses her lips to his skull. She’s never kissed anyone before, doesn’t remember anyone ever kissing her, but she’s seen holovids of happy people. She knows, in theory, how it’s supposed to go. Still, she fumbles it slightly, knocking her teeth against the hard outer-shell of D-0’s hide. She doesn’t complain. If anyone deserves to cry, it’s D-0. Not her. “Yeah, D-0. You’re a person.” 

-

“Took awhile, but this guy looks like he’s gonna fly.” Rose says, patting the command console with an affectionate hand. 

“Sure.” 

“I said: he looks good to go.” 

“That’s great.” Finn says. His eyes are fuzzing out from where they’ve been focusing in on the headstones. At this point, having looked at them so long, they appear mostly as patches of ominous, dull gray blurs. He blinks, but the sight he opens his eyes back up to isn’t helpful, refusing to crystalize into something understandable and therefore manageable. Just the constant threatening shapes in the distance.

Maybe he should just keep his eyes closed. Forever. Because that’s reasonable. 

“OK, see, I let you wallow when you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but clearly you need to talk about it, so what you want isn’t exactly priority anymore. Come on, come here. Get out of that cushy seat with the too-tight armrest. Sit with me against the wall.” 

“On the floor?” He doesn’t actually care if she sits him outside in the dirt. Just… making small talk, like one does. It’s possible he could make enough small talk that it turns itself into big talk and she forgets whatever intervention she’s clearly planning for him. 

Rose huffs out a weak chuckle. “Yes, your majesty. On the old, dirty floor. And don’t think you can escape. I’ve got a taser, you know.” 

“Boy, do I.” Finn laminates. 

He’d never say this to Rose, because for sure she’d take it the wrong way, no woman couldn’t, but she kind of reminds him of an electric shock. Right down to the bones, just like that first burst of heat she got him with at the escape pods. The opposite of cushy. Life-changing. Havoc in the ninth-degree for someone like him, who had seen the outside of a ship for the majority of his life. She wasn't the type of person you could build a life on. She was better; she was someone you could build a life with. 

“You’re a force of nature.” He mumbles, sliding down next to her. Shoulder-to-shoulder, he comes back to her. To himself. 

“Thanks.” She says, softly. “Now tell me what's bugging you.”

-

BB-8 is getting into a really bad habit. One that Poe needs to nip in the butt. “Stop pushing me.” He grits. 

BB-8 beeps are him, backing off only to start turning circles around his feet when Poe takes a moment to pause after the halted barrage. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, buddy, but I’d like it to get out of you real fast.” 

BB-8 blinks their lights at him. It’s the human equivalent of puppy dog eyes, and just as impossible to guard against. 

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

BB-8 hums in the affirmative. 

“Rey asked me to hear this droid out, and that’s what I’m gonna do. If he has information that could help The Resistance, fine. But let’s just say I’m not feeling too friendly towards the guy who almost blew your scalp off.” Poe rolls his shoulders, noting the angry itch drawing nails across his spine. 

Sometimes, in moments like these, where he just wants to explode, he swears he can feel her. Whatever that means.

Holdo always had a presence about her. It was something he couldn’t help but notice, even in the beginning, when he really didn’t want to. She’d tell him to cool it now. He knows this. She’d do it kindly, too, with a smile on her face. One that was just for him. He used to hate it, those smiles. Clocked them as condensing because he wanted to stay mad, but she just kept looking at him with love and faith even when he used up all his chances.

Back when he was passed out (courtesy of the General's impressive stun-gun), before they even landed on Crait, he swears there was the unmistakable sensation of A Something that prickled across his cheek as he laid cold and prone. If he was primed to believe in hope, he’d think it was the touch of her hand. 

He isn’t; optimism’s never come naturally to him, not like fighting, but, if Holdo taught him anything, it’s this: Hope is like the sun, if you only believe in it when you see it, you’ll never make it through the night.

When he breathes in, he smells violets. Earthy, feminine, vital—her. With great deliberateness, he unclenches the fists his hands have inadvertently driven themselves into. “Vice Admiral.” He murmurs to himself, fond. “Don’t say I never listened to you.” 

BB-8 shines a couple lights his way, trailing them off in imitation of a question mark. 

“A girlfriend?” Poe laughs. “No.” 

Flowers, big and bright and unfurling; stars streaming across the sky in full bloom; the proud silhouette of a peace-making warrior garbed in purple velvet. Those damned smiles. His heart, hiccupping in his chest. “She was as good as one, at any rate.” He coughs. “As important as one, I meant. Mean. It’s what I mean. Jeez; kindly delete all of that, BB-8.” 

This time, the nudge BB-8 gives him is soft. More a touch of comfort than a push anywhere. Poe shakes out his arms. Where before there of tension, spiky zags of blossoming fury, now there are just the long, smooth slopes of sadness and joy. The bittersweet mixture loops him like a lasso. Solid. Real as his own right-hand or a fighter pilot.

She’s with me, he thinks. Even when she’s not here, she is. He doesn’t know how two things so against each other can simultaneously be true. 

It’s probably something Rey knows but hasn't spoken of, because Rey is the type to know a lot and divulge next to nothing. Something strange and impossible that's part of the force-nonsense she’s always on about. Did she read it in a text? Or is it innate? “How about we go see Rey and D-0 now?” He muses at BB-8, and the name of the cone-headed droid doesn’t immediately make him want to go down swinging. 

So, that’s something. Might even call it an improvement, if you were feeling generous. Amilyn Holdo would. She was forgiving that way.

-

The First Order wasn’t a constant, never-ending nightmare. The guys there weren’t, like, digging into his eyeballs or showing him a film of hobbled together images meant to mess with his brain. He doesn’t know why The Resistance always asks about shit like this, like he grew up in a different galaxy instead of just on some ship. A First Order ship, sure, but still a ship. 

“I feel bad, sometimes.” Finn says. “‘Cause they want to hear all this bad stuff. Like it would make them feel better, to be shooting at troopers who engaged in eyeball digging or something. The First Order isn’t like that. Smarmy, yeah--but, other than that, they remind me a lot of DJ.” 

“Are you saying DJ isn’t smarmy?”

“Rose.” 

“Sorry, continue.” 

“So it was like that, you know? Just a bunch of people looking out for themselves and nobody else. That’s what the First Order is based on. Not evil. Selfishness.” Finn swallows. “I could understand them a lot of the time. Still can. They're just people, even the worst of them. Even… even Phasma.” 

“Finn--” 

“When I hit her, it felt good." He blurts out. The statement, freed to the air at last, releases something inside him, an unknown pressure. These words aren't things he can see himself giving to Poe or Rey, but, here and now, on the old, dirty floor of a decades' lost ship she was just guts deep in, he knows he can tell Rose. "It felt like freedom.” He brings his fingers in front of his face, the knuckles of them gnarled with strain. In front of his eyes, his hands turn from hands, to claws, and back again. 

“You were right to hit her. She would have killed you.” Rose grips onto one of his claw-hands, and it transforms back into a purely human instrument. She twines her humanity in with his. “You know that, right?” 

“Yeah, I know. I don’t feel bad about it. But... I don’t think I should have felt so good about it at the time, ethier. I wish I was more like you, where helping another person was always better than hurting one.” 

“You think it comes easy to me? You think I’m--what? Pure? Finn, you heard me. I wanted Canto Bight gone. I didn’t care if all the people in that casino went up in smoke.”

“But it was different.” 

“How? How was it different?” 

“I don’t know. It just was. It was you, and I’m me.” 

Rose stands, pulling him to his feet with her hand in his. As short in stature as she is, Rose stands mightily tall with the added height of her personality. “I meant what I said when I met you. I thought you were brave, and, now that I know you, really know you, Finn--” She hugs him. “You’re braver than I ever thought a person could be. That moment, with the faithers, out under the big, dark sky in the screaming cold--out on an island that made me feel physically sick--that was the first time I realized it wasn’t about my anger. When I really understood, in a way I hadn't, that it was about love.

My parents, Paige, the Resistance--it was all love, it is all love, and I didn’t even know it until you looked at me and that faither leaped free into that field. Even surrounded by love, I was angry. So angry. You get to be angry, too. You get to feel wrong and bad and ugly. It’s OK, because everyone feels like that at some point. It’s human, and denying that is what gets you in trouble. It's what made me meaner than I needed to be. As long as you’re trying for the light, though, you’re welcome to it. That's true for everybody. And that's the difference between us and DJ. The trying.” 

“Trying just... doesn’t seem like it’s enough.” 

“Enough for what? Some cosmic scale that will tip and tell you if you're worthy or unworthy? That's too easy. The truth of it is that we’re all just people trying to get through it the best we can.” 

“...And we can get through it easier, better with help.” 

“Exactly. We can get through it, all the hardest parts, and, if we're lucky, we can get to the point where it doesn't feel like just surviving, anymore. Where it's past that--it's life. But, to do that, we have to try.” 

“I’ll try, then. If it’ll help you, and Rey, and Poe.”

“And yourself.” 

“And myself.” 

“Caring about yourself isn’t selfish, Finn. It's only bad when you chose yourself so much that it reaches the point of disregarding others. And besides,” She pulls a little on his collar, straightening it with a wobbly smile. “We all rather like ‘Finn’, so please treat yourself well.” 

“I’ll treat myself well.” He says, looking into Rose’s eyes. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever said. Quite possibly the hardest thing he’s ever done, period. 

He would have thought it would be before: the shear magnitude of an impossible to measure gasp of determination stuffed into the confines a tiny junk-racer, heat slicing up his neck, cheeks, and catching fire under the paper-thin shield of his eyelids. Hearing Rose cry, Poe cry, and not knowing if Rey was even still alive—preparing to leave. Preparing to die.

But no. “I promise, Rose. I’ll be kind to myself.” This. This is the real gut buster.

"Right then." She says, nodding. "I'll do the same. It's a pact."

And Finn resolves not to runaway this time. That's the easy part. He's far past that, something that would have been the biggest trial of his life just a year ago. Now, it's the matter of forgiving himself for it when he succumbed to it earlier. Accepting his cowardice for what it was: borne from someone younger and more fearful and less wise, from the mind of a person who hadn't yet found a purpose to follow. For Rose, for Rey, for Poe--for himself--he'll do his best. He'll try.


End file.
